Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

Watson nodded, arms folded, looking down into his lap as though seeking answers. Rebus doubted they’d be found so close to home. He rose to his feet.

‘We could do with finding those letters, too. Perhaps, Lady Scott, you might have another look in your husband’s… office.’

She nodded slowly. ‘I should tell you, Inspector, that I’m not sure I want to find them.’

‘I can understand that. But it would help us track down the blackmailer.’

Her voice was as low as the light in the room. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘And in the meantime, John?’ Watson tried to sound like a man in charge of something. But there was a pleading edge to his voice.

‘Meantime,’ said Rebus, ‘I’ll be at the Castellain Hotel. The number will be in the book. You can always have me paged.’

Watson gave Rebus one of his dark looks, the kind that said: I don’t know what you’re up to, but I can’t let anyone else know that I don’t know. Then he nodded and almost smiled.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Yes, off you go. I may stay on a little longer…’ He looked to Lady Scott for her assent. But she was busy with the handkerchief again, twisting and twisting and twisting…

The Castellain Hotel, a minute’s walk from Princes Street, was a chaos of tourists. The large pot-planted lobby looked as though it was on someone’s tour itinerary, with one large organised party about to leave, milling about as their luggage was taken out to the waiting bus by hard-pressed porters. At the same time, another party was arriving, the holiday company’s representative conspicuous by being the only person who looked like he knew what was going on.

Seeing that a group was about to leave, Rebus panicked. But their lapel badges assured him that they were part of the Seascape Tours package. He walked up to the reception desk and waited while a harassed young woman in a tartan two-piece tried to take two telephone calls at the same time. She showed no little skill in the operation, and all the time she was talking her eyes were on the scrum of guests in front of her. Finally, she found a moment and a welcoming smile for him. Funny how at this time of year there were so many smiles to be found in Edinburgh…

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Detective Inspector Rebus,’ he announced. ‘I’d like a word with the Grebe Tours rep if she’s around.’

‘She’s a he,’ the receptionist explained. ‘I think he might be in his room, hold on and I’ll check.’ She had picked up the telephone. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, nothing, just want a word, that’s all.’

Her call was answered quickly. ‘Hello, Tony? There’s a gentleman in reception to see you.’ Pause. ‘Fine, I’ll tell him. ’Bye.’ She put down the receiver. ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’

Rebus nodded his thanks and, as she answered another telephone call, moved back into the reception hall, dodging the bags and the worried owners of the bags. There was something thrilling about holidaymakers. They were like children at a party. But at the same time there was something depressing, too, about the herd mentality. Rebus had never been on a package holiday in his life. He mistrusted the production-line cheerfulness of the reps and the guides. A walk along a deserted beach: now that was a holiday. Finding a pleasant out-of-the-way pub… playing pinball so ruthlessly that the machine ‘tilted’… wasn’t he due for a holiday himself?

Not that he would take one: the loneliness could be a cage as well as a release. But he would never, he hoped, be as caged as these people around him. He looked for a Grebe Tours badge on any passing lapel or chest, but saw none. The Edinburgh Castle gatekeepers had been eagle-eyed all right, or one of them had. He’d recalled not only that a Grebe Tours bus had pulled in to the car park at around half past eleven that morning, but also that the rep had mentioned where the tour party was staying – the Castellain Hotel.

A small, balding man came out of the lift and fairly trotted to the reception desk, then, when the receptionist pointed towards Rebus, trotted over towards him, too. Did these reps take pills? potions? laughing gas? How the hell did they manage to keep it up?

‘Tony Bell at your service,’ the small man said. They shook hands. Rebus noticed that Tony Bell was growing old. He had a swelling paunch and was a little breathless after his jog. He ran a hand over his babylike head and kept grinning.

‘Detective Inspector Rebus.’ The grin subsided. In fact, most of Tony Bell’s face seemed to subside.

‘Oh Jesus,’ he said, ‘what is it? A mugger, pickpocket, what? Is somebody hurt? Which hospital?’

Rebus raised a hand. ‘No need to panic,’ he reassured him. ‘Your charges are all quite safe.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’ The grin returned. Bell nodded towards a door, above which was printed the legend Dining-Room and Bar. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Anything to get out of this war zone,’ Rebus said.

‘You should see the bar after dinner,’ said Tony Bell, leading the way, ‘now that’s a war zone…’

As Bell explained, the Grebe Tours party had a free afternoon. He checked his watch and told Rebus that they would probably start returning to the hotel fairly soon. There was a meeting arranged for before dinner, when the next day’s itinerary would be discussed. Rebus told the rep what he wanted, and Bell himself suggested he stay put for the meeting. Yes, Rebus agreed, that seemed sensible, and meantime would Tony like another drink?

This particular Grebe Tours party was American. They’d flown in almost a month ago for what Bell called the ‘Full British Tour’ – Canterbury, Salisbury, Stonehenge, London, Stratford, York, the Lake District, Trossachs, Highlands, and Edinburgh.

‘This is just about the last stop,’ he said. ‘For which relief much thanks, I can tell you. They’re nice people mind, I’m not saying they’re not, but… demanding. Yes, that’s what it is. If a Brit doesn’t quite understand what’s been said to him, or if something isn’t quite right, or whatever, they tend to keep their gobs shut. But Americans…’ He rolled his eyeballs. ‘Americans,’ he repeated, as though it explained all.

It did. Less than an hour later, Rebus was addressing a packed, seated crowd of forty American tourists in a room off the large dining-room. He had barely given them his rank when a hand shot into the air.

‘Er… yes?’

The elderly woman stood up. ‘Sir, are you from Scotland Yard?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Scotland Yard’s in London.’

She was still standing. ‘Now why is that?’ she asked. Rebus had no answer to this, but someone else suggested that it was because that part of London was called Scotland Yard. Yes, but why was it called Scotland Yard in the first place? The woman had sat down now, but all around her was discussion and conjecture. Rebus looked towards Tony Bell, who rose from his own seat and succeeded in quietening things down.

Eventually, Rebus was able to make his point. ‘We’re interested’, he said, ‘in a visitor to Edinburgh Castle this morning. You may have seen someone while you were there, someone standing by the walls, looking towards the Scott Monument. He or she might have been standing there for some time. If that means something to anybody, I’d like you to tell me about it. At the same time, it’s possible that those of you who took photographs of your visit may have by chance snapped the person we’re looking for. If any of you have cameras, I’d like to see the photos you took this morning.’

He was in luck. Nobody remembered seeing anyone suspicious – they were too busy looking at the sights. But two photographers had used polaroids, and another had taken his film into a same-day processor at lunchtime and so had the glossy photographs with him. Rebus studied these while Tony Bell went over the next day’s arrangements with the group. The polaroid photos were badly taken, often blurry, with people in the background reduced to matchstick men. But the same-day photos were excellent, sharply focused 35 mm jobs. As the tour party left the room, en route for dinner, Tony Bell came over to where Rebus was sitting and asked the question he knew he himself would be asked more than once over dinner.